


Back in the Game

by Fancifullauren



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Murder, Sex, don't worry neither of the main bbies die xo, montparnasse and claquesous got old
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-28 23:17:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3873598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fancifullauren/pseuds/Fancifullauren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Montparnasse and Claquesous have enjoyed a fruitful life of crime, but when it's time to kick back and relax, they find that they've fallen into a bit of a rut. Perhaps what the pair needs is a little taste of their old life to bring the spice back into their relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Back in the Game

The whirr of the sewing machine makes it impossible for Claquesous to hear his documentary on organized crime in the 90’s. He’s hoping the Patron-Minette will make an appearance, or at least have some mention of the formerly famous dandy of the sepulcher and his shadow of a partner. 

Alas, even if there had been a mention, Claquesous won’t know. “Turn that down,” complains the man to his partner. 

“I can’t,” Montparnasse shouts over the noise without bothering to stop it for a second to speak. “We’re leaving tomorrow and all my beach clothes look ridiculous now that I’ve lost that weight.” 

Sous looks up to the man sitting with his back erect enough to be fitting of a man half his age. It doesn’t take a sharp eye to note that Montparnasse has not, in fact, lost weight, but rather had his weight redistributed on his body. It is obvious the man works desperately to maintain the figure he once had, and as such is prone to look leaner, more toned than the average 50-year-old. Still, he can’t stop a bubble of fat from forming right beneath his navel, or the angular lines of his jaw from becoming more curved as he stores a bit more right beneath his chin. 

“So buy new ones.” 

Montparnasse scoffs. Of course he won’t be buying new ones – these were just purchased earlier this season and will still be in style for the rest of the summer. Moreover, they are _limited edition_. It isn’t as though he can just find something to better fit him. 

Claquesous simply turns up the volume on the television. 

\----

The dinner they share tonight is largely quiet, followed by small bouts of meaningless conversation.

Montparnasse knows he won’t care about the fashions but also that his old man appreciates little gestures. “I fixed your swimsuits. They’re a few inches shorter – that’s the style this season.” 

And of course, Claquesous can’t care less about what’s in style this season. “Thank you.” He does appreciate it. 

Silence.

“Did we come up in the documentary?” 

“No,” Claquesous replies with a sigh, not noting the fact that he could barely hear it due to his incessant sewing noises. 

“That’s a shame.” 

Silence. 

“We should write our own documentary.” 

“Oh?” 

“Yeah. I could star in it.” 

Claquesous mulls the idea over in his head a bit. “They’d know what you look like and catch you.” 

“Everyone already knows what I look like.” 

No, Montparnasse. Everyone knew what you looked like in 1992 back when you were relevant. The silver-haired fox sitting in front of him is reminiscent of the youthful, ruthless criminal only in his composure and lust for luxury. Of course, Claquesous keeps this to himself and shrugs. “I wouldn’t want people looking at the screen and drooling over you.” It’s a smart move on his part, and earns him a smile from the fop. 

\----

It’s May 15th. Claquesous has known this since he woke up and checked the calendar, though he’s unsure if Montparnasse remembers the implications of this particular day. The dark former-killer is lying in the king-sized bed they share most nights and waiting for his partner to return, which in and of itself should be an indication of how special that day is. As Montparnasse returns, Sous holds out a hand, which the former man lays on. He shifts about at the discomfort before he realizes that it’s his other half causing it. “What are you—“ 

“It’s the fifteenth.” 

“Oh, yeah.” 

“Do you want to?” Claquesous sounds cautious, but there is no nervousness apparent in his voice.

“I don’t know. I’m really full from dinner.” 

“We don’t have to.” 

“Just make it a quick one.” 

Claquesous rolls onto Montparnasse, not moving the hand he used to initiate the whole thing as he does so. As he meets those familiar lips with his own, he realizes he can’t remember the last time it was that they’d shared anything more than a quick peck on the lips – perhaps it’d been the 15th of April. It doesn’t matter much to him. Montparnasse reaches out to turn off the lamp. It’d been years since he’d been comfortable enough with his body to have sex with the lights on.

To Claquesous, making love to Montparnasse is like being a master of a single instrument but only ever playing one song. It’s a beautiful melody, but even the most marvelous compositions can grow trite to ears who’ve heard the tune ten thousand times. Fortunately for the older man, music in general has grown stale to the ears of Montparnasse, and as such he does not seek out other musicians to play him. Both men know how important it is for their relationship to rosin up their bow and blow the dust off the strings every once in a while, though, and so the tradition of the 15th was established. 

The name “Montparnasse” is on his lips as he finishes buried inside his wonted cavity, though it’s a moan more of habit than passion. He knows Montparnasse likes knowing he was on his lover’s mind the entire time they made love. Four more slow thrusts, four more pleasured moans from the man beneath him. He pulls out. One kiss. He rolls off. 

It’s only ten o’clock. Ten years ago they would have found themselves catching a quick brunch at this time followed by a quick fuck before going out on their first mission. Today, Claquesous faces the wall and drifts off to sleep as Montparnasse turns the light back on and pulls out a book. He strains to read the words on the page in the dim light of the lamp but won’t reach for the glasses Claquesous made him get. He doesn’t like the way they look on him. 

“You know, we could write our own documentary.” 

You’ve already said that, Montparnasse. “Oh?” 

“Wouldn’t it be cool if I could be the star?” 

“Yes, it would be.” Sous is already falling asleep. Montparnasse busies himself with his book so he won’t be bothering him anymore. Claquesous is tired after the lovemaking; he appreciates his silence. A half hour later, Montparnasse falls asleep to the steady sound of the other man’s snoring. At this point he doubts he would be able to sleep without it. 

\----

Six AM. Claquesous is just getting back from his morning run with Babet and Montparnasse is for once excited to be awake early. Babet waves hello to the younger man but as usual Mont ignores him. It’s been forty years since Sous and Babet ended their relationship and still the dandy gets jealous of the time they spend together. At this point, he’ll never like Babet, even if he does trust Claquesous to stay faithful. Yet as usual, Babet tries with him. “Hope you two have fun in Italy,” he says. 

“Oh, we will,” Montparnasse insists as he leans against the counter wearing his signature cocky smirk. All crow’s feet and saggy arms, Babet doesn’t wear his age well and he knows it. The dandy loves that – no matter how bad he feels about his body, he only needs compare himself to Claquesous’s ex to start feeling better about how he looks. 

In a display of dominance, Montparnasse gives Claquesous a kiss while he’s still in the doorway, right in front of Babet. Sous is embarrassed – Babet’s eighth wife has gone “missing,” which has become a common trend amongst the women the man tires of. Perhaps it’s insensitive to display such affection in front of him. 

Babet doesn’t look perturbed. Damn him, Montparnasse thinks to himself. 

But he won’t let anything tarnish his mood. Today they’ll be trading in the monotony of Paris for the view of an Italian beach and people waiting on them hand and foot. 

“I’d better get going. I’ll see you in a week. Have fun,” he wishes them with a smile that, much to Montparnasse’s enjoyment, causes the corners of his eyes to wrinkle. _Delightful._

Once Babet has left and the doors are closed, Montparnasse wraps his arms around Claquesous’s neck and leans in for another kiss. 

“Someone’s feeling good this morning.” 

Montparnasse kisses him again. Claquesous rests his hands on the other’s hips. He gets another kiss for that. 

“Someone’s leaving for Italy with his handsome man this morning,” counters the dandy with a smile. His lips, still red as always if a bit thinner, look lovely pulled into a grin. Claquesous can’t resist it: this time, it’s he who initiates a kiss. It’s nothing like the kisses they shared last night, which were all duty and deep-seeded love. No, this is something they enjoy, something that barely happens anymore: this is passionate. If either takes notice, he says nothing of it.

He breaks away still wearing that beautiful smile. “You smell terrible. Go take your shower; I’ll get all the rest of our stuff packed.” 

\----

Is it really that difficult to sleep on a plane? 

When you’re Montparnasse and refuse to use an eye mask or travel pillow because of how they’d mess up your hair and supposedly give you bags under your eyes, yes. 

Though his chair is leaning all the way back, he still fidgets about, unable to sleep. Perhaps it’s the lack of Claquesous’s snoring that’s putting him off, or the fact that these first class seats aren’t as nice as they’re advertised to be. Still, Sous is fond of the sight when he glances over. “You look very handsome.” 

Montparnasse doesn’t reply. 

Claquesous takes his hand. “Elegant, even. You were born to ride first class.” He brings his partner’s hand to his mouth to kiss softly. 

“Shut up, I’m trying to sleep.”

Though he doesn’t admit it, the peacock loves the compliments. Claquesous knows this and so despite the negativity, he continues to give them day in and day out. 

\----

“Oh, _Claquesous!_ ” Montparnasse cries, waltzing into the hotel suite and performing a theatrical fall onto the bed. “Why don’t we have a bed with a canopy? Or one of these?” He rolls over to look out onto the patio with a view of the Mediterranean Sea. He rises and makes his way over to the glass doors, which he slides open with ease and dramatically throws himself onto the rail, looking to the ocean. “I want an ocean view back at our house.” 

“Paris doesn’t have an ocean. Would you rather a view of the Seine?” 

Montparnasse snickers at his little joke. The two of them hate the Seine, with all the loud boats and people pissing and throwing their garbage into it. No, it’s nowhere near as romantic as the Sea. Claquesous comes up behind him and wraps his arms around his waist, resting his chin on the other’s shoulder. 

“I want to move to Italy, Claquesous.” 

“No you don’t.” 

“And why don’t I?” 

“Because Italy is not France. French wine is far better than Italian grape juice, and I know you love the fashion scene back at home much more than you could ever fancy a show in Milan.” 

Momentarily distracted, the younger man replies: “God, I’d love to go to a fashion show in Milan.” 

Sous can’t contain himself. “Good,” replies the criminal, “because that’s what I’ve got planned for Wednesday’s excursion.” 

“You didn’t!” Cries his partner, elated. He turns around to press a quick kiss to his lips before scampering inside to go read over the itinerary he’d printed out and put on the bed. “Claquesous!” He shouts again.

Though Sous only had enough money and strings to pull for one ticket, he knows Montparnasse will enjoy it anyway. 

Tonight, the skinnier of the two sleeps holding hands with his dark, warm lover. 

\---

Claquesous is up at 5 the following morning, sitting on the porch and watching the sun rise. Though he’s drawn the blinds to keep the sunlight out, Montparnasse still rises to join his lover out on the porch. The two don’t exchange any words as they look out onto the horizon, but the silence speaks louder than anything they could ever say to one another. It’s comfortable. 

The dandy is the first to rise to return inside. He dresses himself in his swimsuit – a tight-fitting thing Claquesous always tells him is more fitting of a man of twenty, but he continues to sport it nonetheless. He also lays out his partner’s trunks as well as swimming shirt. Sous had been foolish enough to get a tattoo of the Patron-Minette’s symbol – a three-leaf clover with a crown above it – covering most of his back in his youth. Going without the shirt would be damning them both. He slips on a pair of Ray Bans and heads out to survey the beach. 

His other half comes inside after a good, long smoke to dress himself in the clothes that’d been laid out for him. He pulls them on and wears a pair of oversized sunglasses he’s never without. Going with a bare face was something he simply cannot do: the teardrop tattoo beneath his eye would be a dead giveaway that he’s a murderer. 

Montparnasse is already lounging on the beach by the time Claquesous gets there. He looks like a millionaire, poised on his back with his hands behind his head and the satisfied smirk of a man who has enough money to truly be happy in his old age. The sleek stainless steel Rolex lying next to him doesn’t hurt the image either. He must have taken it off to avoid tan lines. Sous takes it and sets it in the bag he’d brought. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” 

“Putting your watch away. I don’t want it to get stolen, not with what I spent on it.” 

“It’s not gonna get stolen, Sous. They don’t let riffraff on this beach.” 

Riffraff like they used to be in their prime. Claquesous snorted. “You just want it out so people can see that you own one.” 

“So?” 

Typical Montparnasse. The older man sets up a chair underneath the umbrella, preferring to stay out of the sun while he listens to the waves roll onto the shore. 

The hours start to slip by as Claquesous reads his book. When he glances up again, Montparnasse is gone. He scans the horizon to find him looking for seashells in the shallow surf. He sets his book in his lap so he can watch him, bending over when he spies a certain shell or piece of glass, picking it up, inspecting it, and either keeping it in his other hand or tossing it out to sea. Montparnasse glances over to where his lover sits and waves when he sees him looking – it’s flattering, he finds. Claquesous returns to his book. 

Claquesous has drifted off to sleep by the time Montparnasse comes back. 

“Jean,” says the dandy to rouse him. It’s the name Montparnasse has given his lover for when they’re in public: they can’t risk someone recognizing “Claquesous.” 

“Ouais, Yves?” Of course Montparnasse had chosen to be named after his favorite designer. 

Mont takes a bottle of water out of their cooler for himself as he sits next to Sous. “You fell asleep.” 

“We’re on vacation,” he counters, sighing. “I can sleep all I want.” 

“You won’t be able to sleep tonight if you’re asleep the whole day.” That much is true. Montparnasse turns to look at the ocean. “We should go somewhere nice for lunch.” 

“That sounds fine.” 

He smiles. “I’m going to go take a shower. Be ready to go in an hour and a half?” 

\---

As the last of the sunset fades away, Montparnasse wears a smile. Claquesous’s warm, bony hand is holding his own with a calming strength. There’s a reason for a smile – one that will be apparent to his partner in a very short amount of time. He stands and looks down at him. “I’m going to go freshen up a bit,” says he. “You can go make yourself comfortable in bed.” 

Claquesous takes off his sunglasses as he stands up to go back inside. 

Montparnasse follows suit, walking into the bathroom. 

What he sees in the mirror makes him frown. He has lines across his forehead, at the corners of his eyes, and around his mouth. The Botox he’d invested in a few months prior had worn off, leaving his face looking saggier than he’d like. Perhaps he’d need to opt for some surgery to tighten the skin a bit. He knows Claquesous won’t notice the difference, but it’s something that’s important to him. 

No matter. This isn’t the time to be thinking about that. He reaches into the bag to pull out a black pencil liner for his eyes, followed by mascara and a foundation… and then blush, for good measure. By the time he’s done, he looks a bit younger and quite a bit prettier. The look is finished off with a thick coat of deep red lipstick. Finally his face makes him smile. Yes, he looks _good_. 

Next, the buttondown shirt comes off. A lacy corset is revealed beneath; Montparnasse had been wearing it since lunch. As his pants are taken off and carefully folded on the vanity, his stockings, garter belt, and lacy underwear are made clear. Finally he slicks back his hair into a sleek black pompadour – that’s one thing he can hide easily, constantly investing in black hair dye to keep the silver hidden. He winks into the mirror, then leans in with half-lidded bedroom eyes to check himself out. 

Yes, he looks absolutely beautiful. 

With a new air of confidence about him, Montparnasse makes his way into the bedroom, fumbling for the switch before finally getting the dimmer switch to give him just a bit of light. 

He goes over to the bed to find Claquesous asleep on his back. His heart sinks in his chest, but the dandy won’t give up just yet. “Sous,” he coos, crawling up next to him. “Wake up.” He rubs his chest. 

Nothing.

“Claquesous,” snaps Montparnasse more forcefully. 

The figure underneath the blankets moves around a bit. “What?” Comes a tired reply. 

“Open your eyes.” He closes in to place a few gentle kisses on his cheek. They leave lipstick marks in their wake. 

He doesn’t even open his eyes. “Not now,” Claquesous grumbles.

It doesn’t stop Montparnasse. He continues his kisses, trailing them down to his jaw as his hand travels lower, and…

Claquesous rolls away from him without a word. 

The younger man gets off the bed and lumbers off to the bathroom to start washing his makeup off. As he looks into the mirror once more, the face looking back at him wears a frown. All the wrinkles and lines are made worse by the makeup, he thinks, and the eyeliner looks rather comical on a man of his age. What once made him confident now tears at his self-image, leaving large gaps in their wake. The tears blend in to the water washing away his face. 

\--- 

Claquesous barely remembers what happened the night prior as the morning rolls around. The only evidence that anything happened had been wiped away on the pillowcase during his sleep. The clock reads 6:12. “Mont,” he says tiredly, nudging the man beside him. “Time to wake up. We’ve got the tour of the church today.” This was something he didn’t want to miss. Old architecture was somewhat of a fascination of his, always looking about Paris in his youth to find new places to get to know and fantastically intricate buildings to explore. 

As usual, the peacock takes ages to get ready. The sun is already high in the sky by the time they’ve had a leisurely breakfast and gotten down to the hill upon which the church stands. Claquesous takes his time once he’s inside, admiring all the beautiful architecture – the white walls and ceilings, the beautiful statues in every nook. Montparnasse is a bit bored, but tries not to show it for the other’s sake. He’s absently looking at the altar when he spies a familiar face sitting in a pew. 

“Jean,” he whispers, reaching out to squeeze his partner’s hand. Sous turns to look at where Montparnasse is nodding. 

The blood drains from his face. Thick brown lips thin into a tight line. 

Instantly he’s 30 years old and encountering a routine enemy – a dangerous one. The man sitting in the pew is none other than Vincent Saint Gobrain, legendary French gangster. While Montparnasse and Claquesous had retired almost half a decade ago, Vincent had vowed to stay with the trade all his life. Sous can feel the blood pulsing through his veins, thick with the intoxicating mixture of fear and adrenaline he didn’t know he’d missed until this very moment. 

It all comes back to him. The debt they hadn’t paid, the vow that they’d be paying for it somehow: whether in currency or in blood. He had thought they would have long forgotten. 

They haven’t. 

With his partner’s hand in his own, Claquesous tilts his head down and cuts through the crowd of people for the exit. As they go, he spots another member of Vincent’s gang: Louis Janvier. Their eyes meet. He can see him reaching inside his coat to grasp at something – a gun, Sous has no doubt. But would he really chance shooting them in a public place? 

Neither of the pair wants to find out. They wind through the people and out the front door. Montparnasse follows Claquesous’s lead as the dark man sticks to the edge of the church’s wall and sticks to it until they’re in the woods behind the church. 

Safe at last. Montparnasse is standing tall and defiant, looking to the place they’d just come from in case of danger. Claquesous wastes no time in taking up their old fighting stance, watching where Montparnasse can’t: behind his back. It’s so natural that neither man truly notices it’s happening until they’re standing poised for an attack – only this time, they’ve brought nothing but their experience to arm themselves with. 

Louis is the first to show himself. The bullet tears straight past Montparnasse’s ear. The former killer is quick to respond, diving to his right behind a tree as Claquesous takes shelter behind another. A brief look around shows that Louis is standing in the open – an amateur move for such a seasoned criminal. He can hear the distant sound of babble coming from the people outside the church, birds chirping, and the distinctive crunch of boots on the forest floor approaching them. His nails dig into the bark of the tree. 

After exchanging a brief glance with Montparnasse, Claquesous nods. They both come from behind their respective trees. Montparnasse is swift in punching Louis in the jaw while Claquesous wrenches the gun from his gloved hands. With a pull of the trigger, the man falls to the ground. The power he feels in his single hand is better than he remembers. He’s just ended someone’s life with the flick of his finger. It felt amazing. 

“Saint Gobrain is still here somewhere,” hisses the dandy. The tone of his voice had been buried in Claquesous’s memory and is just now being unearthed once more. It’s made of steel and sharp edges, slicing into the ears of anyone listening and demanding respect. 

As if on cue, the sound of footsteps comes again. Sous has just enough time to pull Montparnasse out of the way before the click of a silenced gun sounds and a bullet rips through the air where he had just been standing. Claquesous responds to it by raising the stolen gun and shooting. The shot lands straight in his chest. He goes down. 

The pair approaches the dying man. He’s rather quiet considering his situation – Vincent only coughs and sputters and moans as blood comes from his mouth and the wound on his chest. “Tell us why you’re here,” demands Claquesous. Montparnasse puts his foot on the man’s chest and applies pressure, causing the man to produce a brief cry of pain. It’s music to Claquesous’s ears. It has been far too long since he’s heard the pitiful scream of a man who is about to die. 

“You must—“ he coughs. “You’ll pay your debt.” His head lays back. 

Claquesous puts a bullet there too, just for good measure. 

On Montparnasse’s face is a look of pure anger directed at the dead man beneath him. He takes his expensive leather shoe off of his bloody chest, preferring not to get it any dirtier than it already is. His spine is straight, his back is tall, and his chest is high. He looks downright _deadly._

Claquesous can’t help himself. 

One second he’s holding a smoking gun and still breathing heavily from the fight, and the next he’s dropping it to the ground and fisting his hands in Montparnasse’s blazer as he yanks him in for a sloppy kiss. It doesn’t take the other a moment to wrap his arms tightly around him, returning the kiss with a heated fervor neither man can ever remember having between them. If it had ever existed, it is long gone by now. 

But in this second, it’s back. Montparnasse doesn’t even care as the designer clothes are torn from his body because there are hands roaming his pale flesh. To Claquesous, every sensation feels new. Montparnasse’s body is a novelty. It’s exciting. It’s something he needs to explore. His hands feel his stomach, the expanse of his chest, his puckering nipples. He gives those a pinch. 

Montparnasse gasps. 

And then Montparnasse is being shoved to the ground with Claquesous following straight behind him. The excitement of the fall right after having watched his enemy die takes his breath away. He doesn’t have long to catch it, either: his lover’s lips are on his right after he hits the forest floor, and his body is being covered by the other’s. Adrenaline turns to desire, the excitement shifting inside of each man from the instinct of survival to the instinct of lust. 

If he’d looked irresistible standing above Vincent, it was nothing compared to how he looks now, peering up at Claquesous with the cocky smirk he’d once worn as a signature. He kisses it once more as his hips grind down. Montparnasse lets out a moan. A hand tugging at his dyed black hair elicits another. Sous runs his tongue along Montparnasse’s bottom lip before biting down – hard. The dead leaves and pine needles sting the skin of his hands and knees, but he doesn’t care. 

“Fuck me.” 

The words shock the killer’s eyes straight open. Somewhere along the way the killer’s sunglasses had fallen off, giving him a clear view of the man beneath him. He’s biting his cherry red bottom lip and looking up at him coquettishly from underneath thin grey eyelashes in a way that leaves Claquesous no room for argument. He fumbles with the button and zipper on his trousers while Montparnasse wiggles out of his own pants. Sous spits in his hand, wets himself down, and – 

Montparnasse cries out as he’s entered, clearly in pain. His long arms and legs wrap around Claquesous as he tries to adjust to his length inside of him without much preparation. Nails dig into the killer’s back. “Please,” begs the dandy, and Sous obliges. His hips rock forward. “Please,” he whispers again. “Please, please, please.” They used to like playing around with pain, pushing Montparnasse to his limit until he was sobbing and begging for release. This is different – it’s more intense than anything they could remember. 

Claquesous pushes all the way inside until his hips are pressed flush against that firm ass he loves so much. He leans forward to bite down on Montparnasse’s neck as he sets a slow face. 

“Faster. Please. Please, Claquesous, faster, more—“ he’s cut off by a groan as Claquesous obeys. 

The murderer no longer in control. His animal instincts have taken over. Claquesous just expressed the ultimate show of power over two other gangsters, and now he’s going to give it to the man he loves. After a brief stop to add a little more spit to the mix, he’s fucking him again, this time thrusting hard and fast into Montparnasse, a mess of pleased moaning beneath him. 

When he cums, he shouts into the meat of Montparnasse’s shoulder, which muffles most of the sound. Montparnasse doesn’t take long after that to finish off all over his stomach. 

There’s only time for a few romantic kisses between them before it’s time for Claquesous to pull out and stand up. He pulls his pants back up to his waist. “We need to get out of here,” he says, glancing over at the corpse a few feet away from him. “They’ll find them here soon. No time to go back to the hotel. Call a cab to take us to the airport – we’re going back to France.”

“There have got to be more of them out looking for us, especially now that we’ve killed two of them.”

“I’ll have Babet pick us up from Charles de Gaulle and we’ll work out all the arrangements from there.” The excitement in Claquesous’s voice can’t be masked. 

The crime duo is back in the game, and they can’t be happier.


End file.
